


Something to Write Home About

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Confusion, F/M, Hangover, Morning After, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: When he woke, Harry was greeted by the sun casting a line across the cramped room through the slit in the blackout curtains—and a splitting migraine.OR: "Harry wakes up with a glorious hangover and knows he's had sex withsomeone, but can't remember who."
Relationships: Harry Welsh/Other?, Kitty Grogan/Harry Welsh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16
Collections: Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme





	Something to Write Home About

**Author's Note:**

> For the [LLSS prompt meme.](https://looselipssinkships.altervista.org/prompt.php) A fill to save fills...! 
> 
> I'm not entirely in love with this (Harry and I still don't quite jive together yet), but it was fun to write and, more importantly, the deadline is tomorrow. So, here we are. Hope ya enjoy it, folks!

When he woke, Harry was greeted by the sun casting a line across the cramped room through the slit in the blackout curtains—and a splitting migraine. His mouth was dry, his stomach rolling in waves like he was back on that damn boat departing New York Harbor to cross the Atlantic for the first time. Christ, he felt like shit.

A stout Irishman, Harry had prided himself on his ability to stave off even the worst of hangovers since he was fifteen years old. But much to his displeasure, Harry had learned in the last eight months of fighting that hangovers punched a lot harder when you were chronically fatigued and malnourished. Fuck, he was getting too old for this shit. He really should’a known better.

The young officer took a moment to gather his bearings, grinding closed fists into his eye sockets to try and dampen the searing pain behind his eyes and practicing deep, slow breaths. But the breathing only served to worsen the nausea, so he promptly ceased with it and sluggishly sat up. That was when the Irishman realized that he had not, in fact, been sleeping in his bed, but rather, he’d been passed out on the floor. Looking down at his semi-slumped form, mind reeling, he also noticed the full depth of his disheveled state.

Naked from the waist down, shirt hanging open and off-kilter, Harry was _covered_ in cum.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned, the sound of his own voice sending another throbbing pain through his skull. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…”

There were muffled voices coming from downstairs, and as he drank in his surroundings, Harry also realized that he wasn’t back in his shoddy billet; instead, he found himself in his office at Battalion HQ in Mourmelon. “Great, just… _great_.” The struggle to rise to his feet was embarrassing, especially with his ass hanging out. Once he was somewhat steady on his feet, he checked the top drawer of his desk for the bottle of hooch Nix had given him as an early Christmas present the last time they’d been in the little French village. As suspected, the bottle was gone. (Eventually, he would find the empty bottle where it had rolled under a cabinet in the corner. But that was a search for later.)

Despite the consuming headache and his stomach’s mutiny, Harry sloppily pulled himself together, wiping the cum off with the tie he found hanging off the back of his desk chair and stuffing himself away in wrinkled, dirty trousers.

Just what the hell had happened last night?

There were impressions. He hadn’t completely blacked out—he _was_ still Irish. Pain pulsing behind his eyes and in his ears, Harry struggled to piece together the glimpses of the previous evening. He remembered getting his mail from back home, remembered going out for dinner at Brasserie Liberté with Dick and Nix, remembered Dick excusing himself once he and Nix ordered their third round of drinks, remembered the staggering walk back to camp from the Red Cross club where he and Nix had ended their evening, remembered yet more drinking and…and orgasmic pleasure. 

What he _did not_ remember was bringing a girl back to his office. He didn’t even recall chatting up any broads with Nix in town, much less walking one back through the shabby network of tents and shower houses to HQ and having his way with her. He had made promises to Kitty, pre-vows vows, if you will. And thus far, he had been steadfast and true, but Harry was far from perfect. As a passionate man with equally passionate urges, it wasn’t entirely inconceivable that he’d broken his word to the love of his life—even if it pained him to merely think on it.

So, just who the hell had he fucked last night?

Harry knew as he exited his office and embarked on the short journey down the hall that he did not bear the figure of an officer. Knew that Dick was going to give that tiny little frown of his, the judgment boiling in his eyes. But Dick could frown in disapproval all he wanted. As of that moment, this was the best Harry could do. As usual, they’d gathered in Dick’s office, and when Harry stumbled through the door, wincing from the light flooding in through the many windows, the Irishman wasn’t greeted with frowns or judgment at all—on the contrary, he was met with smirks and amusement.

“Morning, Harry. I take it you slept well. Tell me, did you have sweet dreams?” There was a shit-eating grin plastered across Nix’s face.

“Fuck off,” Harry grumbled, dropping down unceremoniously into an office chair caddy-corner to Dick’s desk. The redhead leaned back against his desk, ankles crossed before him just as his arms were crossed over his chest. Harry did his best to clear the heavy sleep from his throat without wincing. “Morning, Dick. What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Good morning, Harry. Uh, today, we’ve got…um…” Without meeting his eyes, Dick turned toward his desk, shuffling some paperwork as if searching for a hidden door that would allow him to escape his own office, tumbling down into the rabbit hole like Alice and away from the situation before him.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, Dick. I know I look like shit, okay? I’ll head back to billet and clean up after the morning debrief, alright?”

“Maybe have a shower while you’re at it.” Nix flashed a fox-like smile. “No telling what you’re covered in…plus, you smell.”

Before Harry could retort, the figure of Carwood Lipton filled the doorway. With a nod toward each of his superiors, Lip bid them a professional ‘good morning, sirs’, and though Lip was always a bit more polished than the rest, there seemed to be an unusual amount of propriety in his tone and posture that morning. And, ah, Christ, was he blushing? Dodging Harry’s gaze, Lip stepped forward to hand Dick a sealed envelope. “From Col. Sink, sir.” 

“Bourbon Bob’s at it early,” muttered Nix as Dick accepted the package, “Thank you, First Lieutenant.”

Bobbing his head, the young Virginian turned swiftly on his heels to exit. Lip couldn’t have beat a hastier retreat if the room had been on fire. Head still swimming with pain, Harry leaned forward in his chair and demanded, “Okay, what the hell is up? I know I got a little out of sorts last night, but let’s face it, it’s hardly the first time.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Nix. “And you of all people have no right to—”

The intelligence officer raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, hey, pal,” he chuckled. “You’re certainly right. I’m the last person to reprimand a man for taking stock of life’s pleasures. Though, Harry, I’ve got to say, your little show last night really—”

“Lew.”

The word was one of warning, and at Dick’s behest, Nix snapped his mouth shut, glee dancing in his dark gaze. He shrugged, the embodiment of relaxation as he reclined in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Shutting up.”

Harry’s spine had gone rigid, much to his stomach’s chagrin, and there was a prickle of foreboding tingling the back to his scalp. “What show…?”

Nix barked a laugh, and Dick went a little white. The redhead cleared his throat. “Harry, I think it’s probably best if we—”

“Oh, no way he’s getting out of this one, Dick.” Nix beamed at him. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Harry sighed and dragged a hand down over his face. “Look, if I brought a woman back, just tell me, alright?”

“There wasn’t a woman, Harry.” Dick’s reply was soft, gentle, and though it contrasted nicely to Nix’s open mockery, it did nothing to soothe the worry creeping over Harry’s skin. The Irishman went wide in the eyes. “Oh, Christ, _did I fuck a man_?”

Harry yelped the question without thought, immediately knowing that there was no way he would’ve forgotten if he’d had sex with a man. But what other option was there?

The question was, obviously, met with a round of raucous laughter from Nix and a decent amount of blushing on Dick’s part, though there was the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth when the redhead answered with a precise, “No, Harry.”

“You really don’t remember?” Nix echoed himself when his chuckles eventually subsided. “You don’t remember the letter?”

Harry’s eyebrow quirked. “What letter? What from Kitty?”

“Mhmm. The one you picked up before we headed into town for supper. The one you just couldn’t wait to get back here and read…” The inuendo in Nix’s voice was unmistakable, but the Irishman remained puzzled. So, he’d gotten sloshed and came back to the office to read a letter from his future wife? Maybe it was the migraine, but Harry couldn’t scent out the scandal for the life of him.

And then—there it was. In a sudden rush, one that sent his head pounding and his stomach churning, Harry remembered. The wobbling walk back to CP. Having his seventh or eight drink of the night as he read Kitty’s letter, nearly weeping over the familiar curve of her letters and the wit behind her every word. How he’d fingered the scrawling script, whispering her name. The way his mind had wandered thousands of miles across the ocean to his darling bride-to-be—to her wicked smile, her soft eyes, the delightful way she laughed. Pulling the letter to his nose and swearing that by God it still smelled like his Kitty.

And, of course, masturbating with the letter nestled crudely between his fisted hand and his cock.

“Holy shit…” he murmured, slumping down in the chair, mortified. As he raised his hands to drag over his face, the reality settling over his shoulders and sending another powerful wave of nausea tumbling in his stomach, Harry mumbled incoherently to himself, “I didn’t…aw…but I...I didn't...”

Nix beamed, not unlike a proud parent. “You did, my friend. Loudly. Pretty sure half the battalion heard you. Not to mention that you left the goddamn door open—”

Harry groaned. “Ah, jeez.”

“—which is how we know all about your torrid night of romance. Poor Lip, I don’t think—”

“Not Lip. Ah, Christ.”

Feeling pity for his friend—and somewhat secretly admiring the depths of Harry’s devotion to Kitty—, Dick rescued the Irishman from the intelligence officer’s teasing. He kicked Nix’s boot with his own. “C’mon, Lew. Let’s go find some chow. Harry needs to clean up.”

Harry glanced at the redhead, dipping his chin in gratitude for the excuse to tuck tail and hide away in his billet for a while, wherein he would drown in his own humiliation. After he went back to his office and found the remains of Kitty’s letter, of course. That was not the kind of evidence one wanted left sitting around if he had any hopes of still holding onto the respect of his men. Feeling as embarrassed as he did hungover, Harry sighed. “Well, at least I kept my promise to Kitty.”

“That’s right, pal,” Nix agreed, not sparing the Irishman an ounce of condescension. Rising to his feet, the dark-haired officer flashed Harry a smirk. “Look at it this way, at least you finally have something to write home about.”


End file.
